


something something roses

by alleged (wraithwisp)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 22:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9207860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithwisp/pseuds/alleged
Summary: A Templar and a Circle mage run off to stop the Blight—Well, Alistair supposed he’d find a way to tell it as a proper joke, someday. Maybe when he’d figured out what the punchline was. For now, the whole thing was just rather draining.(In which Alistair has to deal with a loud Warden recruit straight out of the Circle, and somehow ends up falling in love.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtman666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtman666/gifts).



> This is for my friend Sandro, who is gay and loves Alistair and somehow has not lost all respect for me. Thank you for proof-reading all my writing, dude.
> 
> Also, shout out to my girlfriend Vivian, who I love, and who edited this and thus prevented it from being a total mess.

A Templar and a Circle mage run off to stop the Blight—

Well, Alistair supposed he’d find a way to tell it as a proper joke, someday. Maybe when he’d figured out what the punchline was. For now, the whole thing was just rather draining.

There were several problems with being on the run with mages. First, that they couldn’t cook. Well, Morrigan could. He knew that from an offhand comment she had made at her mother’s hut. Still, she refused to help them make any meals. Rather, she preferred to take the form of a giant spider, and devour the flesh of newly killed animals in plain sight. As for Amell…

Amell was certainly something. Something, but not a good cook. Alistair had to spit out the first stew he made, retching.

“Are you trying to deliberately poison me?” Alistair asked. “What even is in this?”

Amell scowled, took a bite himself, and then his face scrunched up even more. He spit it out.

“I thought salt made things taste good,” he muttered.

“Maker… salt?” Alistair asked. He remembered Amell picking up a package of seasonings from the wreckage of some merchant’s cart that had been abandoned on the way. “How much of the bottle did you put in?”

“Half?”

Alistair laughed until he was wheezing. “You—half the bottle? Andraste preserve us, do you not know anything about—”

He got a bowl of stew tossed at him, and barely managed to dodge, and then Amell was pacing around, yelling.

“Well, maybe if the damn Circle taught us—but  _ nooo,  _ we can’t learn anything that would help us survive outside, now can we? That might help us escape or become independent, wouldn’t it? And I’m not going to be laughed at by some damn Templar, when—”

He could go on like this for hours.

That was the second problem with being on the run with mages—they hated him. Alistair had realized this early on, back at Ostagar when Alistair had mentioned his Templar background and Amell had immediately turned hostile. Now, Alistair couldn’t look in his direction without Amell shouting at him to ‘mind his own damn business.’

Morrigan, on the other hand, seemed to merely hate Alistair as a person. The two of them got together at night, Morrigan telling Amell tales of how her mother used to deal with Templars.

“And then,” Morrigan said, relating one story to Amell, “I heard a shriek from the bushes! Mother came out, all bloodied, and the bodies of the Templars lay limp in her jaws. She tore off their heads, and stripped them for their armor.”

Amell laughed and clapped. Both of them managed to somehow sneak pointed looks at Alistair, who decided to turn away and ignore them.

He had Duncan’s death—all the Grey Wardens’ deaths—to weigh on his mind. He didn’t need to get into it with either of them. He decided, instead, to go off on his own and--enjoy nature? Look at some flowers? Anything to give him some peace.

(He found, outside of camp, that the grass was dry, the trees shriveling, and that every flower had withered and died, as though in preparation for the Blight.)

* * *

  


Amell was the only other surviving Grey Warden. That should have meant something, made some sort of bond between them. Instead, Amell seemed to want nothing to do with him.

So instead, Alistair had to put up with all his charming qualities. And there were many of them.

Amell never seemed to know how loud he was. He was shaped like a twig and his ribcage looked perpetually collapsed, and yet he managed to make his voice boom like he had the biggest pair of lungs in Thedas. Especially when he was excited. Or angry. Or angry specifically at Alistair—which he seemed to be, fairly often.

(He didn’t bark at  _ Morrigan  _ every time she made a joke at Amell’s expense, Alistair thought glumly.)

Amell also seemed to like the outside a lot. Too much, maybe. He rolled in the grass and shouted loudly about how wonderful and  _ ticklish  _ it felt, only to be wheezing and coughing thirty minutes later, eyes watery and red. A grass pollen allergy, Morrigan informed him gleefully, laughing when Amell spat at her.

Somehow, knowing he had an allergy didn’t stop him from getting his face and hands in every ‘new and interesting’ plant they came across. Along with running around in the rain, jumping in puddles, insisting on jumping in some river rapids because they looked ‘exciting’ and having to be pulled out by Morrigan in bear form. Several bouts of hypothermia and assorted allergy symptoms later, Alistair caught him staring at some intricate vine. A poisonous one, Alistair was fairly certain.

“Hey,” he said. “After the last time, do you really think you should…?”

Amell cut him off. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

The resultant rash had Amell on the ground and cursing the Maker, and halted their travel for a full day.

“Well,” Morrigan said, outside of the tent where she and Alistair could still hear Amell cursing. “At least one of us is having fun.”

“Fun?” Alistair sniped. “Is that what this is?”

Alistair thought back. Amell hadn’t looked anything like someone having  _ fun  _ during any of these shenanigans. He’d been glowering, jaw set. Like he was fighting a battle every time he jumped into some new mess against all logic. If anything, he seemed grimly determined to do these things, rather than actually enjoying any of them.

* * *

  


Right outside of Lothering, they were beset by bandits. Amell stared at the cooling bodies for a moment, before taking one of the less bloodied ones by the legs and dragging it off towards the woods, huffing at the effort.

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “What are you  _ doing?” _

“Going to have some fun, I presume?” Morrigan said.

“None of your business,” Amell snapped.

He disappeared into the woods. Alistair listened to rustling in the bushes, and shuffled uncomfortably. He looked at Morrigan, but her face was blank.

“What…?”

“Go see for yourself, if you are so curious,” she scoffed. “’Tis none of my business.”

She went off to loot the other corpses. Alistair waited, growing more nervous by the second. Duncan  _ had  _ mentioned having to conscript Amell from the Circle because of some incident involving blood magic. Maker, had Duncan recruited a blood mage? And not told Alistair?

He gave up, and ran to the woods.

“Amell,” he said. “Are you--?”

He just saw a flash—the corpse stripped down to the smallclothes, and Amell pulling his robe over his head. Before Alistair could finish his sentence, Amell had stripped, caught sight of Alistair, and was snarling furiously, throwing the robe in his face.

Alistair tried to explain. “I was just—”

“Out! Out! Go away!”

Alistair did as told. When Amell came back out, he was wearing the bandit’s clothes—all bloodied and torn. He was hopping, struggling to fit on one of the boots as he came out.

“Fucking—” Amell hissed, “Mage robes--! I’m not gonna spend a single more day in them! Not one more!”

Alistair stared. He understood, he realized. To not want to be immediately identified, to want to purge all visible traces of what had made the world decide he needed to be locked up. Alistair would want the same thing, were their situations reversed.

“What are you looking at?” Amell said, snapping Alistair out of his thoughts.

Alsitair sighed. “You do realize you put the shirt on backwards, right?” he said. “And the pants are inside out.”

“I can wear it however I want, Templar,” Amell told him, stalking off. He proceeded to go to the rest of the corpses and pull off any jewelry, shoving the rings on his fingers and the rest into his pockets.

* * *

  


Amell’s bloodied, inside out and backwards clothing drew the stares of enough villagers that Alistair started to feel uncomfortable. Still, Amell just about ran through the town, unaffected by the stares and the general misery and aura of doom. 

“So this is a town!” he boomed. “It’s so small! Smaller than the tower!”

Amell was too excited to stick with them, as well, and decided to slip away and go off on his own. Alistair had to run around looking for him, finally finding him in a tavern, clutching a mug and laughing wildly to himself.

“This stuff is great!” he was shouting, voice reverberating. “I can’t believe—I’ve never? Had this before? What’s this stuff called again?!”

There was no one talking back to him, but he kept on, ranting loudly and earning some nervous looks from the other people in the tavern. His cheeks were red, eyes shining—and then he looked at Alistair and his mood dropped instantly.

“What are  _ you  _ laughing at, Templar?” he snarled.

Alistair had, in fact, been grinning. He couldn’t help it. Amell was just so—but Alistair had to pull it together.

“You ran off,” Alistair said, attempting to scold. “With all our money, too. And without telling us what in Andraste’s name you were doing!”

“I don’t need to tell you… shit,” Amell said, bristling. “I don’t need to fucking,  _ report  _ on where I am every second! Not anymore! I don’t need you watching me—I’m never going to let anyone—not again…”

His face collapsed for a moment. Alistair sighed, stepping forward. “Look,” he started.

“I’ve got rights now!” Amell yelled, standing up, staggering. He was  _ really  _ drunk, far drunker than Alistair had thought. “You better realize—I’m a Warden, same as you! I can do what I want and drink what I want and  _ have  _ things and—I’m a fucking Grey Warden, okay?!”

Dead silence throughout the tavern. “Shout that again, why don’t you?” Alistair sniped, hushed. “I don’t think Loghain could quite hear you in Denerim.”

“What’s this?” a voice said from behind them. “Grey Wardens?”

In the brawl with the bounty-hunters that ensued, Amell managed to set a table on fire and blacken half of the tavern wall with a particularly harsh electricity spell. The tavern patrons all ran out screaming, regardless—well, all except for the actual thugs. Alistair and a rather helpful Chantry sister had to knock them out instead.

Afterwards, Alistair just collapsed at the table. Amell stared at him, tensing, looking like he was waiting for… something that wasn’t good. Maybe a reprimand. Alistair thought of several mage-related jokes, but instead opted to gesture towards the mug.

“Can I have some of that?” he asked.

Amell stared, and then shoved it towards him. Alistair took a swig, and grimaced.

“So,” he said, not sure where to begin. “Circles. They’re kind of fucked up?”

“Kind of,” Amell muttered. Was that shame Alistair detected? Perish the thought.

“Didn’t get a chance to really work at one,” Alistair told him. “Watched one Harrowing once. Made me realize I really, really didn’t want to be in that line of work. It was bad.”

Amell still looked suspicious. “Harrowings,” he echoed. “Bad.”

“Honestly,” Alistair said. “I don’t see why they can’t tell you what you’re in for ahead of time. Make it, you know, easier to fight the demon.”

“Right?” Amell asked. “Man. Fuck the Harrowing.”

“Fuck it,” Alistair agreed, taking another swig. “I’m so glad I’m a Grey Warden and not a Templar, now.”

Amell was looking at him carefully. “Did you want to be a Templar before?”

“Pfff,” Alistair said. “Of course. Aren’t the uniforms just smashing? Who could resist?”

Amell scowled.

“No,” Alistair admitted. “No, I did not. Got dropped off at a Chantry when I was little. Didn’t have much choice after that.”

Amell nodded. Alistair pushed the mug back to him, and he took a swig himself.

“So,” Alistair said. “Do you think you could stop calling me ‘Templar’ all the time?”

Amell grunted. “Fine.” A pause. “Alistair.”

“Hey, you remember,” Alistair laughed.  “What’s yours again? Like, your first name. Not ‘Amell’ like I’ve been calling you.”

“None of your business.” But Amell didn’t sound as angry this time.

They took turns drinking. By the time Morrigan found them, they were both giggling and Alistair had decided maybe Amell wasn’t such a terrible person to defeat a Blight with, after all.

* * *

  


He found the rose by the edge of town, right where they had to slay some darkspawn. It was untouched, untainted—perfect even though every plant around it had withered or been trampled.

He did not entirely understand what he felt seeing it—not then, at that moment—but he plucked it while none of his companions watched, and pressed it delicately in his journal.


	2. Chapter 2

Once Amell’s energy wasn’t aimed aggressively at Alistair and his habits had, instead, started to wear down on Morrigan, Alistair decided Amell was an absolute delight.

“I suppose all those rings are supposed to armor your fingers,” Morrigan drawled.

“They’re  _ supposed  _ to look amazing,” Amell told her. “And they do.”

Morrigan scoffed. “You are making the Chantry sister weep with your choice of accessories.”

It was true. Alistair had seen a few horrified looks from Leliana every time Amell tried on a new outfit or decided to add another ring or a gold chain around his neck. Her suggestions had fallen on deaf ears—complimentary colors were too boring for Amell.

“Well, I like them,” Amell huffed.

“Those chains will snag in combat, and if you add any more rings you won’t be able to move your fingers,” Morrigan lectured. “Think of practicality, at least.”

“Oh, practical clothing?” Alistair jumped in. “You’d know everything about  _ that,  _ I’m sure.”

Amell laughed, while Morrigan scoffed and said something about  _ her _ fashion, at least, having earned Leliana’s approving gaze. Alistair didn’t bother, too busy reveling in the warm, fuzzy feeling of having his jokes laughed at.

Amell’s eyes also sparkled when he laughed, and Alistair found himself staring.

Amell, in general, was fun to watch. He seemed so impressed and enthralled even by little things, like the feeling of rain or soil. He spent an hour spitting rhymes back at a talking tree, making Sten sigh disappointedly. He stepped in every trap, inhaled every deadly poison, and seemed to want to loot everything, even spider webs. He learned to cast magic with a sword, and wear armor despite being a mage, only to still run into battle wearing the flimsiest clothing for “fashion” and still casting from a distance instead of locking swords with any of their foes.

“What’s the point if you’re just using the sword to cast spells like it’s a staff?” Alistair asked.

“The point,” Amell said, “is that the sword looks cool.”

And then, one night, Amell came to him, wild-eyed and grinning, shoving some “special herb” in his face.

“You have to try it!” he said, practically singing. “They told us about it in herbalism class at the Circle but—holy shit. Hooooooly shit!”

It turned out it was much more fun to participate in Amell’s shenanigans than to watch. They ended up on the grass, rambling. Amell laughed at all of Alistair’s bad jokes, and Alistair decided to guess at Amell’s first name. His guesses made Amell giggle, even if they were apparently wildly off the mark. They moved from there to other topics—chantry sermons they had hated listening to, worst teachers they had ever had, and the like.

Eventually tapered off from riotous laughter into silence.

“You know what’s really funny?” Alistair said quietly, staring at the stars.

“What?”

“Sten.”

Amell cackled, slamming the ground with his fists as though this were the best joke he’d heard in his entire life. And then he was wheezing and having a coughing fit.

“Shit,” Alistair said. “Grass allergy. That’s right.”

He had to pull Amell up, and they both started back towards camp. Amell was wobbly and wheezing, so he supported himself on Alistair, draping an arm around his shoulder.

“You’re a pretty great guy,” Amell choked out. “For a Templar.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Alistair chirped back. “For someone who thought knocking open a beehive for the honey was a good idea.”

Amell scowled. Alistair refused to feel bad for that jab. Those bees had really stung.

“It’s all good though,” he chatted. “You’re on your own for the first time, you’re seeing all this stuff… you need to make your own decisions, do your own thing. Even if your own thing is a bit...”

Amell was looking at him now, face scrunched up. Alistair didn’t know what expression that was supposed to be, so he chuckled nervously.

“Honestly, it’s impressive,” Alistair said, “that after being in the tower your whole life, you’re still… you know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well.” Alistair was fumbling for words. “Just, I’m very—I’m very impressed by you. In general. Now…” He furrowed his brow. “Which way back to camp?”

“…Shit.”

Sten found them the next morning, collapsed in some bushes. Leliana had the huffiest sigh for them when they came back, and Morrigan just laughed.

* * *

 

Amell hadn’t laughed so much or smiled so much during the first weeks of their journey, Alistair realized. It was encouraging to see him open up, this way. It made Alistair forget, sometimes, that Duncan and all of the Grey Wardens had died. And it was nice to have Amell relax around him, to laugh with him instead of being laughed at.

And then, they were sitting around at camp after sorting things out with the Dalish, comfortably close. Alistair felt a warm, ticklish heat from the proximity, and suddenly Amell was looking at him, brow furrowed.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” he asked.

Alistair choked. “No!” he said. He felt his face turn red, wondering what he had done wrong, what made Amell  _ accuse  _ him— “I only like women, honest. I haven’t been trying to—you don’t need to worry about me coming onto you or anything.”

Amell scowled. Alistair realized he had jerked back rather dramatically.

“Okay,” Amell said, tone flat. He sounded annoyed. “Fine.”

He got up, and walked off.

The next day, Amell seemed a bit more on the scowly, snappish side of his emotional spectrum. Alistair gave him his space, waiting the issue was would blow over. And it would, he reassured himself. After all he hadn’t really said anything wrong—had he?

And then, they were attacked, fighting through assassins, interrogating the one left alive—a rather handsome elf, who gave Amell a sultry smile and offered to warm his bed.

Alistair spluttered at the come on. “You aren’t seriously thinking—”

But the moment Alistair starting objecting, he already saw the warm, pleasant flush on Amell’s cheeks.

“Bed-warming sounds nice,” Amell agreed. “Not that I have a bed, but—”

Alistair stared, and blinked, re-thinking the exchange from last night, the sulking Amell had been doing since then. The realization hit him like a brick.

_ Oh. _


	3. Chapter 3

The worst of it, Alistair thought, was that he had to hear the awful flirting. And then that he had to hear them  _ at night _ .

It didn’t take long for them to get to that point. He had to listen to the absurd come-ons for less than a week before he saw Zevran coming out of Amell’s tent in the morning, grinning smugly, combing fingers through his hair to smooth it. Alistair had to scowl at him.

“You know he’s just trying to get closer to you because—because he wants to kill you!” Alistair objected.

“My, my,” Morrigan said. “Jealous? Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll pay attention to you again if you ask nicely.”

“Go die in a bush, Morrigan,” Alistair snapped. “He’s really bad news. He’s definitely going to try to finish the job.”

Amell smiled, giddily. “Yeah. You’re right. He probably is.”

He proceeded to make like a rabbit with Zevran every night in their tent. Loudly. Alistair had to roll over and plug his ears.

The trip to Redcliffe made Alistair want to tear out his hair. He had to watch Amell laughing and joking with him, had to watch them touch flirtingly, grab each other’s thighs while sitting close and trailing their fingers lightly down each other’s skin. He had to watch Amell run to Zevran when he wanted someone to drink with or someone to jump into a freezing river at midnight with. It was fucking annoying—like any couple would be, Alistair told himself.

(That it meant Amell spent less time with him, that his eyes were always on someone else now and he barely spared Alistair a second glance—that had nothing to do with it.)

* * *

“Finally, a place with a market!” Amell belted once they got to Redcliffe. “I want to get an earring. There was this guy—he ran away from the tower and came back with an earring. It looked like the coolest thing. A Templar ripped it right out of his ear. There was so much blood. But it looked cool.”

He didn’t even blink at the disturbing pronouncement. Zevran chuckled, and Alistair felt his face sour.

“Do you think I can get an earring here?” Amell asked brightly. “I want three.”

“In a small town such as this?” Zevran laughed. “Perhaps. At a jeweler’s, maybe.”

Alistair had wondered if Amell would treat him any differently if he knew Alistair was the bastard son of King Maric. And after telling him upon entering Redcliffe, he now knew—it made no difference whatsoever. Amell was much too wrapped up in the handsome elven assassin guy to bother much about Alistair’s admission.

“That’s kind of interesting I guess,” is all he said. “So, Zevran, do you think they got any good food or drink here?”

Alistair tried not to let himself be disappointed.

Leliana and Sten tried futilely to make sure that Amell did not drink himself senseless before the undead invasion. Instead, he went for the nearest bar and ordered several new drinks he had never heard of, plus several new kinds of food. He devoured it ravenously, face lighting up at every new flavor, lighting up even more when Zevran nuzzled him and told him how  _ ravishing  _ his smile was, how adorable his enthusiasm.

“I hate to be the responsible one,” Alistair said, amazed that Zevran and Amell had even invited him when all they seemed to want to do was sample way too many beers and kiss aggressively in public, “but shouldn’t we be at least sober before nightfall? Just so we can, you know, fight off the undead hordes?”

Amell waved his hand. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “You can just make me vomit it all out later.”

Vomiting up alcohol did not, in fact, sober him up. And yet, they managed to fight through the darkspawn anyway—Leliana resigned, Sten increasingly pissy, Morrigan tutting, and Zevran chuckling when Amell still managed to demolish five darkspawn with a bolt of lightning.

* * *

“You’re jealous,” Leliana told him blandly, exhaustedly.

“No!” Alistair insisted. “I just—there’s no one else to talk to that’s—he’s the only other Grey Warden left, and… arrrrrrgh.”

Leliana patted him on the back. She looked tired. So, so tired. “That’s jealousy.”

“But I’m not—I don’t even—”

“What’s this about jealousy?” a bright voice piped in from behind them. Zevran. Alistair scowled. “I’ll have you know, I find jealousy incredibly sexy.”

“Oh, lay off,” Alistair said.

He was going to snipe back but then he caught sight of Leliana’s face. Tired. So, so tired. She had been up all night fighting an unholy army of the dead all night, she had to put up with Amell and all his shenanigans. Alistair decided to have pity on her, and not trouble her with his definitely talk of feelings. He’d find someone else. Someone who was not Amell. Or Morrigan. Or….

“So anyway,” Alistair started nervously. “It’s perfectly normal to feel kind of bad when one of your friends starts spending all his time with some new guy, right? It doesn’t mean…”

Sten sighed, wearily.

* * *

In the dungeons of Redcliffe, there was a prisoner. A prisoner that had Amell throwing himself up against the bars, eyes lighting up with something Alistair had never seen on his face.

“Jowan!” Amell’s voice echoed. “Holy—what are you doing down here?”

The man in the cell was haggard, bloodied. “You…?”

“Yeah, me!” Amell’s voice was suddenly-high pitched. “What did they do to you?”

“I—they—”

As the tale came out, Alistair watched Amell’s face. His eyes were soft, face drawn, his hands twisting at the bars of the cell door. At the mention of torture, Alistair saw his jaw tighten. After the blood mage had finished, Amell was quieter than Alistair had seen him in a long time.

“I’m letting you go,” Amell said.

“What?!” Alistair said. “He’s a maleficar, you can’t—”

Amell turned around for a moment, jaw set, eyes steely. The softness disappeared, leaving only the fury Alistair had seen when they first met.

“ _ You  _ don’t get to decide for us,” he said. He didn’t say  _ Templar,  _ but Alistair felt he could hear it in the space before his next sentence. “No one decides for us, now.”

Alistair didn’t have the words in him to fight this, and so he just looked away, and listened as the blood mage scuttled off. When he looked up, Amell was staring him down, as though daring him to do something about it. The same hostility and suspicion from their first meeting was back. Maybe it had been foolish to think there could be anything else.

After a moment, Amell turned wordlessly and continued through the cellars.

“This castle better have some good loot,” he muttered.

* * *

Later, in the castle’s main room, they found out the blood mage’s decision with Amell’s gift of freedom had been to come back. Amell massaged the bridge of his nose.

“Jowan,” he said. “Why are you like this?”

The blood mage bowed his head meekly. “Sorry, Leroy.”

Amell scowled and hushed him. The significance of this only struck Alistair when they were out of the castle.

“Your name is  _ Leroy?” _

Amell’s expression soured. “Not another word.”

* * *

Amell was tense while speaking with Ser Carroll in front of the boat to Kinloch Hold. He seemed to make himself small, avoided eye contact. He made his voice almost quiet, flat with only the slightest traces of hostility under it. Alistair could see his jaw grinding, a twitch running through his left arm.

“You alright?” Alistair asked.

Amell’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t answer.

The same deference was there when he talked to Ser Greagoir, though Alistair could see a flash of personal hatred in Amell’s face when he saw the guy. All appearance of respect flew right out the window, however, when the Rite of Annulment came up, at which point, Amell’s head shot up and his face paled with horror.

“You can’t!” he shouted.

“And what choice do we have?” Ser Greagoir asked.

Amell seemed to draw himself back, afraid, but the fear was replaced with rage in a second.

“I won’t let you,” he said. “There might be survivors!”

Before Alistair knew what he was doing, his hand was on Amell’s should. Amell stilled, and Alistair took a deep breath.

“Hey,” he said, quietly. “I know this is hard but… the mages in there are probably already dead. We have to do anything possible to clear out…”

He wasn’t able to finish his sentence before getting shoved back.

“How dare you?!This is  _ slaughter!”  _ Amell roared. And then, Alistair saw a flash of hurt. _ “ _ I thought you were—I thought—”

“They let themselves be corralled,” Morrigan pointed out. “If their masters have chosen death for them, I see not why we must risk ourselves to save them.”

Amell opened his mouth to say something back, but nothing came out. “You—you’re… but you’re also…” was all he managed.

Morrigan scoffed. “It is an insult you would compare me to these. I respect myself, and my own power.”

Alistair watched the betrayal on Amell’s face turn to fury, and then—to determination.

“I’m going to go in,” he said. “And I’m going to look for survivors. Sten, Zevran, Leliana—come with me. You two—” Amell’s face twisted “—you two can stay here.”

Morrigan tsked, but seemed unbothered. Alistair’s stomach dropped.

“What?” Alistair shouted. “If you’re going in, you can’t leave me here. I was trained for this—you need me!”

“No,” Amell snarled. “I don’t.”

In the end, all Alistair did was watch the doors close behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Amell after Kinloch looked dead. Pale, subdued, shoulders slumping, and covered in blood and what looked like bits of flesh. But, as a matter of fact, alive.

Alistair was ready to throw their previous argument to the winds and hug him, if only for that.

“Survivors,” Amell told Greagoir, voice harsh and clipped. “Irving. About a dozen children.”

Somehow, it sounded like the most bitter “I told you so” Alistair had ever heard

He didn’t speak on the way out, but stuck close to Zevran. There was no touching, now. Just a whispered thank you. Zevran chuckled in return.

“Let’s get back to camp. I’m sure we can find some excellent ways to take your mind off this tragedy, no?”

But Amell didn’t respond, not verbally anyway. Alistair forced himself to turn away.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Alistair on night watch saw Amell leave his tent, hair in a mess, shirt unbuttoned. He was slinking away in some kind of mockery of stealth, not giving Alistair a single glance. He didn’t even seem to know Alistair saw him.  

When Alistair found him, he was standing at a ledge by the lake—just shadowy figure against the starry sky, looking down into the water.

And then, he jumped.

Alistair bolted to the shore. In the dark he could barely make out Amell’s head coming up, spluttering and choking as he flailed.

“Amell!” Alistair called. “Oh Maker—”

His hands shook. He could barely get his armor off in time before diving in. And then he had to fumble around in the dark, get slapped in the face by Amell’s flailing arms, and then swim around to find a shore. Amell was choking when Alistair pulled him out.

“What were you thinking?!” he said.

Amell spluttered.

“Oh Maker,” Alistair said. “Don’t choke to death, um—”

There was a way to dislodge water from someone’s lungs, and Alistair didn’t know it. So he had to stick to sitting and watching Amell flail and choke some more.

“Amell,” Alistair’s hands reached out, and then pulled back. Amell was, well, entirely naked. Kind of would make touching him again awkward.  “Amell.  _ Leroy.” _

Amell managed to choke even harder. “Don’t—call me—”

“Alright, alright, just—holy shit.”

Amell managed to choke up water, and his breathing got under control.

“What were you thinking?” Alistair asked.

He could barely make out Amell’s scowl. “Clothes?” he said, hoarsely.

“I—oh.”

Amell stood up. Alistair could see the beads of water running down his skin, catching the faint light—he turned away, feeling his cheeks heat up. He’d stripped down himself, but of course left on his tunic.

“Where’s the place I jumped in?” Amell asked.

“Oh, um…”

There was a sudden green glow, magic coming out of Amell’s palms in ribbons before forming a ball of light above them. The good part about that was that it made it easier to see. The bad part—well, it made things easier to see. 

Alistair looked a bit too long, and then snapped his head away. “Sorry,” he said, nervously. “This is… awkward.”

Amell didn’t even respond, but turned away, looking for his clothing. The silence as he put everything back on was unnerving.

“Hey,” Alistair said. “You know, you don’t have to—you can talk about it, with me or anyone else, if you need to. Well, maybe not Sten. Or Morrigan.”

Amell was looking at him now, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not suicidal,” he snapped. “I wanted to swim.”

“That didn’t look like swimming to me.”

Amell didn’t answer, but started to put on his boots, lacing them up. Alistair suddenly remembered that he needed to get dressed too, and started to do so hastily. When they were both done, Amell sat down, staring off into the distance.

“You want to go back to camp now? It’s cold.”

No response. Alistair shuffled for a moment, and then decided to sit down beside him. He looked out into the distance. The tower was a moonlit silhouette on the lake.

“Just say it,” Amell said, voice low.

“What’s that?” Alistair asked. “I think I missed something.”

“I know you’ve been thinking it,” he said, not looking at Alistair. “Just say it out loud and get it over with.”

Alistair felt his heart hammer in his chest. “Say what about what now?”

“That I—that we…”

His voice was cracking with emotion. Alistair’s heart stopped.

“That we need to be locked up,” Amell rasped. “That what happened at Kinloch hold proves we can’t be trusted. That I—”

Alistair’s breath stayed held a moment, then he let out a long sigh. “Oh,” he said.

He was not disappointed. He refused to be. He re-geared his head for a moment. That’s right. Mages. Templars. The fact that Amell had gone in to fight an abomination army and come back looking broken.

“I think you got me confused for Sten. Or Morrigan. I’m not going to kick a man while he’s down.”

Amell snarled. “You think you’re being nice?” his voice went high. “It doesn’t matter—it doesn’t matter how  _ nice  _ you are about it. You think that people need to be around all the time, ready to slaughter people like me at any time. You’re one of them.”

Alistair took a deep breath. “Right. There was something I wanted to say about that.”

Amell tensed.

“I was wrong,” Alistair said. “You were right—there were survivors. Children, even. It was wrong not to try and look for them. It was wrong to think the Rite was the only option. Or—that it’s an option at all.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

Amell didn’t say anything.

“Are you…?”

“Can you leave me alone?”Amell rasped. “I want to be alone right now.”

“I—okay.”

Alistair went back to camp, but found himself looking over his shoulder.

* * *

Afterwards, Alistair didn’t quite know where they stood.

In Denerim, Amell was back to his standard behavior—no, worse. He ran off in their first few minutes in the city, not even taking Zevran with him. Alistair found him—again—this time in a brothel. It was a mirror to that one time in Lothering, Amell drinking, sitting at a table in the corner. This time, though, he was surrounded, the workers cooing at him, one stroking his cheek.

There were mercenaries on the floor, dead. When Amell saw him, he laughed. It didn’t have the bright, joyous ring Alistair remembered.

“You,” Amell said, a little too loudly and hotly for it to be friendly. “You always find me, huh?”

Alistair didn’t know how to take that.

Amell had all the workers leave, but not before giving the woman sitting next to him a long, lingering kiss and promising to meet her later with Zevran. Alistair sat down feeling strangely sick.

“What… happened here?” he asked.

They were already carrying the bodies of mercenaries out, cleaning the floors.

“Business,” Amell said, waving his hand in some exaggerated gesture. “Earned us some money. Had a bit of fun while I was at it.”

“Right,” Alistair said. “Well, if you’ve finished that, we should go.”

Amell handed his drink to him, instead. “Drink,” he said. “Let’s stay. I can hire one of the girls for you—”

“No!” Alistair said. “Just—no.”

Amell rolled his eyes. “What do you want, then?”

“Besides to get back to the others and start looking for this Brother Genitivi guy?”

“Besides that.”

Alistair gave up. “Drinks are fine… I guess.”

Amell called loudly for more drinks, and the staff obliged. They drank, quietly for a few moments, and Amell scrunched up his nose.

“People normally talk while having drinks, right?” he asked. “That’s not just a Zevran thing?”

“Right.”

“Talk then.” Amell paused. “Tell me about being a Templar.”

“Oh boy,” Alistair said. “Now you’re just asking for a reason to yell at me.”

“I won’t. Just talk.”

So Alistair did. He talked about being sent to the Chantry as a child, about the training, about the harshness of it, the lyrium addiction and how it was leveraged by the Chantry to keep the Templars under control. Amell didn’t yell, but didn’t say much in general. At the end, Amell just kind of tilted his head.

“You,” Amell said. “Me.”

“Uh?” Alistair asked.

“We can do what we want now. Both of us.”

Alistair frowned, not understanding where this came from. Before he could ask, however, Zevran stepped in, and Alistair could see he’d entirely lost Amell’s attention. In a second, the two of them were attached to each other, Zevran brightly suggesting a threesome.

“We could even make it a foursome!” Zevran clarified. “If you’re feeling left out that is, Alistair.”

Alistair flushed, mumbled some kind of goodbye, and left.

* * *

When Amell did approach him of his own volition, Alistair didn’t know what to expect. Amell seemed at a loss as well, scrunching up his face as though tasting something bad.

“So,” he said. “You mentioned your mother’s amulet? The one you threw at a wall because of the whole… being shipped off to the Chantry thing?”

“Yes?”

Amell put something in his hand. Alistair took a moment to look at it, process.

“My mother’s amulet! How did you…?”

Amell shrugged. “Redcliffe. The castle. Arl’s room.”

“He kept it?” Alistair marvelled. “Why…?”

“Dunno.” Amell shuffled, face contorting a moment, like this was difficult for him. He raised his hands, an unnecessarily defensive gesture. “Maybe he cares…? I dunno. I just—I thought you should have it.”

“I… Thank you.”

Amell shrugged, and went back to Zevran. Alistair watched as Zevran’s arm went around his waist, and felt a pang.

* * *

The breaking point came after Eamon woke up, after they had retrieved the ashes. The moment they brought the blood mage up from his cell to be judged, Alistair felt like a cold chill entered the room.

This couldn’t end well.

“I would have him spared,” Amell said. “And released.”

Eamon raised his eyebrows. “Released? A blood mage? That, I cannot do.”

Amell was using the same tone Alistair remembered him using around the Templars at Kinloch Hold. Flat, respectful with hostility shoved under it.

“I saved your life didn’t I?” he said. “He’s my friend, show some mercy.”

Alistair saw Eamon’s face harden. “I can show mercy,” he said, coolly. “The mercy of a swift execution.”

Amell was stunned. “No!”

“Then he will go back to the Circle. They will deal with him as they see fit.”

“But he—” Amell stammered for a moment, before shouting. “But I…”

“Take him away.”

Amell stood stunned as they did as Eamon said. Alistair waited for someone to step up and reassure him—Zevran, maybe, since they were close. Or Leliana, since she was good at it. Or Wynne, since it seemed she had known him at the Circle.

But no one did, so Alistair stepped up beside him, laying a hand on him.

“Hey,” Alistair said. “It’s…”

But he was pretty sure Amell couldn’t even hear him. He just jerked away from Alistair’s touch, stepping forward, reaching, panicking. Alistair saw him and the blood mage share a look—brief, inscrutable.

“Wait, Eamon!” Amell said, turning back. “Stop.”

Eamon raised a hand. The guards stopped. Alistair watched as Amell’s face twisted with rage for a moment, before going blank.

“Mercy… a swift execution,” he says, voice shaking. “That would be best.”

“If that is what you want,” Eamon said, stonily.

Amell swallowed, and looked at the blood mage. There was something communicated there, though Alistair could not tell what. Whatever it was, it didn’t prepare Alistair for the next thing Amell asked.

“Let me do it.”

* * *

 

Amell stood before the dungeon door, knife in hand. Alistair noticed for the first time how dark the circles under his eyes were, how thin and worn he looked when not animated with his usual energy.

“Zevran,” Amell asked. “What’s the most painless way to kill someone?”

“Well,” Zevran said. “Granted, I have never died myself, so the best I can do is guess, but…”

“You’re not seriously going to answer that, are you?” Alistair asked hotly.

“I would go for the throat,” Zevran told him. “It always worked fast enough for me. But that may be a bit harder for you. So close to the face, and all.”

“Stop,” Alistair said. “You can’t really want to do this.”

Amell looked at him, but only for a moment.

“Show me where the end of the knife goes,” he told Zevran.

He didn’t take any of them down to the cell. He went alone, not even the castle guards joining him, closing the door gently behind him.

“He’s not gonna do it,” Alistair said.

Morrigan shrugged. “And why not?”

“Did you see how he was looking at that guy?” Alistair said. “No way. He’s going to pull some ridiculous stunt and we’re all going to be killing the guards and then we’re going to have to be on the run for harboring a blood mage, on top of everything else.”

There was a strange quiet at that.

“What?” Alistair said. “He’s just—not that kind of person.”

“I think there are some things you aren’t accounting for,” Zevran said. “For example, there are worse things than death.”

Amell was down there long—much longer than it would take to actually kill someone, especially an unresisting someone. Almost an hour. Alistair was just about to barge down there when the door open. Amell entered, lips parted, eyes unfocused. The knife in his hands was bloodied. He wiped it distractedly on a nearby tapestry.

“Oh dear,” Wynne said sadly. “You poor thing.”

“What did you do?” Leliana asked.

Amell didn’t even seem to hear.

Alistair didn’t believe it until he went into the dungeon himself, stepped in the blood, and aker there was so much blood. It had pooled out of the cell, into the cracks in the tiles, sticky under Alistair’s feet as he walked up to see.

The blood mage’s eyes were wide open, glassy and still.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strangely, when I update this fic it never goes to the top of the archive?? I hope this does not continue to be the case. Still, I wish I knew how to fix it...

Eamon wanted Alistair to be king. Alistair wanted…

He didn’t know what he wanted. Maybe, at least, to have been asked first.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” he asked.

His eyes flicked to Amell for a moment, and he thought about choices and deciding for oneself—but Amell’s eyes were forward, still dead.

Alistair couldn’t make out what was said in the conversation between Amell and Zevran. But he heard choking words, sobs from Amell, something like a nervous, uncertain laugh from Zevran. Then, bitter, harsh words, the sound of something breaking.

Alistair saw Amell stumble out of the room, slamming the door against the wall as he left. He was gasping for breath, eyes red. Alistair watched, jolting back, hoping no one would notice him.

Zevran went after him in the hall, briefly, looking as though to follow. In the end, though, he did not.

Amell left.

* * *

Amell had done this before. Perhaps that’s why it caught everyone off guard when he didn’t come back.

“Well,” Morrigan said. “Perhaps he has finally died in a ditch somewhere.”

“I doubt it,” Zevran replied, smiling wanly. “If there is one thing he is, it is tough to kill.”

“We should not stay here longer,” Sten said. “We have dallied enough.”

And then, everyone was looking at Alistair, and Alistair realized—he was the remaining Warden here. Before Amell had—made all of the decisions, actually. Childish, quick-tempered, and impulsive as he was, he had led them up to here, and gotten them through.

Alistair didn’t know what to do.

“Let’s wait for him,” he said. “He’ll be back. He just needs…”

“We need the time to rest and restock our supplies, anyway,” Wynne cut in when Alistair trailed off. “We’ll wait.”

The next day, when Amell still didn’t return, Alistair started to panic.

“We have to find him,” Alistair said. “Let’s search the town. Something might have happened.”

But he was nowhere to be found in Redcliffe. The only thing they learned from their troubles was that the tavern keeper—who of course could remember Amell quite well, even made a face when they described him—had seen him hitch a ride to leave Redcliffe, along the east road.

“There’s a village there,” the man said. “Maybe that’s where he’s headed?”

* * *

Alistair found him a week later, several villages down. 

He was at an inn, in the corner. Alone. In the few days that had past, he had already become haggard enough that Alistair passed him over when he was checking around the tables, he passed him over at first.

He stood over Amell at the table, nervous. “Hey.”

Amell didn’t even look up. His head just lolled a bit. Alistair decided to sit down, next to him.

“Are you drunk or do you just not want to talk to me?”

Amell finally looked up at him, not quite holding eye contact. This close, Alistair could see he’d been fighting—and clearly not with magic. His face was bruised and scraped, lip split, dried blood caking his face. “You found me again.”

“Yeah,” Alistair laughed, nervously. “Well, you know, finding mages. It’s what I… actually, nevermind.”

Amell grunted.

“So,” Alistair scrunched up his nose. “You definitely smell drunk.”

Amell blinked, and got up, swaying. He made for the door.

“Wait a minute,” Alistair said. “We haven’t even…”

He had to catch Amell as he stumbled. Amell slurred.

“Go away,” he hissed. “I don’t have to go with you.”

“Amell…”

Amell suddenly snapped and started shouting. “I don’t want to! You can’t make me! I didn’t choose this!”

He was slamming fists against Alistair’s shoulders, hostile but weak. For whatever reason, he didn’t bother to use magic. He sagged, making Alistair support him again.

“Fuck the Blight,” Amell hissed. “Fuck the archdemon. Fuck the… fuck the…”

“Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed,” Alistair said.

It turned out Amell already had a room in the inn, upstairs. Alistair practically had to drag him up the stairs while he whined.

“Don’t make me…”

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” Alistair said. “You just need to be cleaned up and get some rest. Then we’ll talk, alright?”

When they were in his room, Amell snarled and tried to punch Alistair in the face.

“Fuck you,” he hissed.

“Go to bed.”

“I don’t have to do what you say!” Amell shouted. “I don’t have to do a damn thing about the Archdemon.”

“You’re a Grey Warden.”

“I didn’t ask to be!” Amell said. “I was consc--conscrippled.”

Alistair sighed. “We’ll talk in the morning, alright? Just… rest for now.”

Amell stumbled, and Alistair tried to guide him to sit down on the bed. Amell ended up clinging, burying his face against Alistair’s shoulder and dragging him down as well. Alistair didn’t have the heart to shove him off.

“Why should I fight the Blight?” Amell asked. “I don’t have anything… anyone left anyway.”

“I… oh.”

Silence.

“That malefi—that mage. At Redcliffe,” Alistair asked. “Jowan…?”

The sound Amell made was heart-wrenching.

“You two…?”

“He was my friend. My best, my only friend.”

Amell’s ragged breath was hot against Alistair’s skin. Alistair waited, and suddenly there were sobs against him.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Amell cried.

Alistair found himself cradling Amell back, not caring that he smelled like alcohol and vomit. “It wasn’t,” he agreed.

“I wanted… I wanted…”

Alistair let him cry, and found himself rubbing circles into his skin, stroking his hair. The moment he did, Alistair felt as though the physical contact hit like electricity, like it set something on fire under his skin. Like magic. Amell quieted and went limp against Alistair’s chest. Alistair slowly lowered him down, saw his eyes were still opened but glazed.

Not satisfied, he got a washcloth and towel, starting to wipe off Amell’s face, at least. Amell winced under the touch, but eventually closed his eyes, sighing softly.

Alistair found himself talking. “You know, you’ve really done well,” Alistair said. “I won’t make you do anything, but—I hope you stay with us.”

Amell didn’t respond. Alistair kept stroking his hair, feeling strangely warm.

“We’ve only gotten this far because of you, you know,” Alistair was surprised at the pain in his throat, the softness. “And I know we all give you a hard time for—a lot of the things you do, the rings and the jewelry and the running off. It’s—well. But everyone likes you. You’re… inspiring. You make everyone feel… you make  _ me _ feel…”

Amell’s breathing had steadied.

“Amell?” Alistair asked. “Amell? L—Roy?”

He caught on the name, just barely stopping himself. Amell continued breathing softly. Before Alistair realized what he was doing, he reached out and ran a hand through Amell’s hair. The touch, again, was like electricity and fire at once.

Alistair realized what this feeling was, and his stomach curled.

* * *

Amell woke hours later, in the evening. Alistair didn’t notice at first.

“Alistair.”

“That’s my name. Glad to see you remember it.”

Quiet. “Where are the others?”

Alistair scratched his head. “Well, they were supposed to be here by now. We were supposed to rendezvous here at this inn, but they haven’t shown up yet. Must’ve gotten busy. Have you eaten?”

“I don’t remember…”

“Right, well. I got some food while you were resting.”

They ate, and eventually talked. Slowly, at first, Alistair filling Amell in on the restocking they’d done while he’d been gone, about their search. And then, Alistair swallowed, and decided to ask.

“So,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d actually kill that guy. Jowan.”

Amell immediately gripped his fork, and Alistair retreated verbally.

“Sorry just—not to bring it up, but I thought you might want to—argh, but I guess that’s bringing it up, isn’t it? Maker, I’m hopeless. Please don’t hate me.”

Amell looked down, and drew a deep breath.

“He didn’t want to be made Tranquil,” he said.

Silence. And then, Amell looked up, tears streaming out of his eyes.

“He  _ thanked  _ me,” his voice wavered. “Because at least I wouldn’t let that happen—and I wouldn’t let him suffer.”

Alistair found his own eyes stinging, himself shaking.

“I don’t have anyone,” Amell choked out. “Not now.”

“Zevran…?”

“He doesn’t want to stay. Not really. Not forever. I’m just—to him—I didn’t mind before but… nobody will—nobody will want to…”

Before he could say anything else, Alistair wrapped him in a hug. Quietly. Amell choked, and wrapped his arms back around him.

After a long cry, a hot meal, and a long bath, Amell was going back to sleep, and Alistair was joining him, trying not to think too hard about the space between them in the shared bed. Amell’s back was to him. It was then that Alistair finally found something to say.

“You know, you have the Wardens, right?” Alistair said.

“Hm?”

“I—I found them to be a family, before they all died at Ostagar. Duncan especially. You’d be surprised how much fun the lot of us had together. Drinking, laughing—you’d have gotten along well with them. After the Blight is over, we’ll probably rejoin, recruit… get more of them together. And you’ll have them.” Alistair took a deep breath. “And you’ll have me.”

He could barely hear Amell’s reply. “Thank you.”

* * *

The next morning—

“You called me Roy, didn’t you? I liked that. Keep—keep calling me that.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, these chapter lengths are uneven ahahaha... oh well. 
> 
> One more chapter left!

Afterwards, Amell stopped going out to bars, stopped running off, stopped throwing himself at every new, interesting thing he saw. The excessive rings went, along with all the necklaces and jewelry he’d been hoarding without cause. He sold them, and didn’t even spend the money on some new novelty that had caught his eye.

Alistair frowned.

Amell and Zevran didn’t get back together. They spoke, talked, slowly started to act comfortable around each other again, but it seemed things between them had ended. At the very least, their nighttime shenanigans had stopped, letting everyone in the camp sleep a little better.

Amell kept his head forward, having energetic twitches at times as though he were reining himself in. He still spoke too loudly, never seemed to know how loud he was being.

He talked to everyone—talked, without constantly shouting down. Talked and then listened. He asked Alistair about the Grey Wardens, about Duncan, about… well, about Alistair himself. 

Alistair saw him conferring with Leliana, taking her with him in the Diamond Quarter in Orzammar. He took the clothes she picked—all lovely, all expensive—and had no joy in his eyes looking at him.

“So,” Alistair said, when he saw him in a new outfit, dressed like a dwarven nobleman. “New look?”

“Yeah,” Amell frowned. “It’s good, right?”

“Um,” Alistair said. “Well, it’s not going to be more practical in battle but...”

Amell frowned.

After a few weeks of that, a few weeks of tireless working on the latest task from Bhelen while He could see Amell’s flickering away, unfocused.

“Alright,” Alistair finally asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Amell said. “I’m better now.”

Alistair frowned at him.

“I am better!” he said. “I’m  _ trying  _ to be better. Isn’t this what—what it’s supposed to be like? Isn’t this what you—oh, never mind.”

He cracked shortly after that, went out to a bar, drank. But when Leliana found him and pulled him back, there was none of the giddy laughter Alistair remembered. He was simply groaning, eyes glassy.

“Glad to have you back,” Alistair said. “I mean… glad you’re back to your old self.”

“I’m not,” Amell said, flatly. He was just on the brink of shouting, which was the quietest Alistair had ever seen him while drunk. “It doesn’t… none of this makes me happy, now.”

“I…” Alistair didn’t know what to say.

“It’s not new. It’s not exciting. Nothing… nothing is like that to me, now.”

Amell’s face twisted.

“I’m sorry.” Alistair wasn’t sure what else he could say.

Amell was vomiting throughout the entire night.

* * *

In the deep roads, Amell took down darkspawn by the dozen. He struck the hoards with mighty clashes of thunder, now perfectly aimed. Their enemies froze in their tracks right before Alistair’s sword. Their movements had become coordinated to each other, in sync and timed like they were a single machine.

And then, in the dark and in the silence in between battles, Alistair could feel Amell linger close to him, whenever possible, drifting toward him as though the two of them were pulled together. Alistair’s heart warmed.

They were attuned. And if it wasn’t enough—and sometimes it wasn’t—Amell was there, healing him even though his healing magic was pitiful, pouring his mana into sealing his wounds.

“Hey, Roy,” Alistair said after one such time. “Did I ever mention how great it is to have you around?”

Amell smiled.

* * *

Amell seemed to want to force as much untainted food into his stomach as possible, after that. It was a bit worrying, watching how he stuffed himself as though it were the last day he’d ever taste. His eyes were tired and his back was hunched, his eyes darting constantly around and his voice sharp and harsh—but Alistair could detect, at least, a bit of looseness, a bit of relief.

They stayed in the royal palace, guests of Bhelen, after the whole thing was done. Amell, uncharacteristically, did not take anyone to his bed. Not even at the feast, when several dwarven nobles made it clear they were interested. Amell just seemed to regard them briefly for a moment, before his eyes travelled, passing them all over as though they were nothing but background scenery.

His eyes passed over Alistair in the same way, when Alistair approached him. His heart sank.

(He still had the rose from Lothering, pressed between pages of his journal. For some reason, he thought of it now.)

“You haven’t, erm, you know… with anyone in awhile,” Alistair pointed out. “Dwarves not to your taste?”

Amell shrugged. “Don’t feel like detached sex for now. Not after Zevran. It just… I don’t want to suddenly start wanting more out of it.”

“Makes sense,” Alistair said. “I’m just surprised you stopped so suddenly.”

“I miss it,” Amell admitted. “People feel nice—their skin is soft and they’re warm and I really liked that. Liked not waking up alone or cold. But.” He shrugged. “Not worth it to me, anymore.”

“There isn’t anyone else you…?” Alistair felt himself choking on his words. “Never mind.”

He left Amell alone in the revelry before he could further embarrass himself.

* * *

Amell started to buy him things. Not very well thought out gifts, at first—things that Amell himself would have wanted, it seemed. Jewelry. Perfume. Soft colorful sashes. Alistair frowned a little at them, and Amell withdrew them, always pouted, acting incredibly huffy and put out by Alistair’s lack of interest in them.

Alistair caught him huffing with Leliana nearby. “What else can I do?”

“Listen. Ask questions. Everyone loves it when people show interest in them, no?” Leliana said, soothingly. “Perhaps there are other gifts that would be more to his taste…”

Alistair stopped, wondering. But then, he’d also seen Amell giving gifts to everyone. Even Morrigan. Even Sten. So it didn’t mean anything, even as he started to notice the amount of thought put into each gift.

Still, he nervously asked Amell to be with him when he saw his sister, and his reaction afterwards was… heartening. 

“Forget her anyway,” Amell said. “You have other people that care about you.”

“Like who?” Alistair quipped. “Duncan? Oh yeah, right, he’s dead, isn’t that—ow!”

Amell had smacked him lightly on the back of the head. “ _ I  _ care about you.”

* * *

A rose for Amell, for Roy, for a man—well, Alistair supposed he was silly to even think of it. It wasn’t thrilling or new or exciting or sensual. It was just, to Alistair it would be…

But, it would not be that to Amell. Alistair—Alistair was the one to appreciate a flower, to pick it up and press it in a book and think it meant something. To Roy, well, Alistair didn’t know if anything had any meaning to Roy anymore. Alistair did not want to be laughed at.

He thought of Amell propositioning him all those months ago, and wanted to smack himself. Why hadn’t it even  _ occurred  _ to him that Amell wanted him, that the two of them could have--but even now he found himself flushing at the thought, pacing. Still, he wondered how things might have been, had he not refused. Wondered what might have happened had he accepted—if Alistair wanted that, if Amell even wanted him anymore.

He didn’t know. Maybe this was all just some delusion on his part, mistaking friendship for something else.

He kept the rose in his book.

* * *

During Eamon’s talks about the throne, and Alistair’s place on it, Amell snapped at him to shut up.

“Don’t talk about him like he’s not even here!” he shouted. And then, he turned to Alistair. “What do  _ you  _ want?”

The silence that followed felt a little heavier than it should have.

“I… I…” Alistair gulped. “I think I want to be excused from the room, more than anything else, actually.”

Amell found him later.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Alistair repeated.

“Of course it does,” Amell said.

“I—Eamon says…”

“Fuck what Eamon says,” Amell shouted, blowing up like Alistair hadn’t seen him in a while. “Fuck that guy! He made you sleep in the stables and then ditched you at the fucking Chantry, and now he acts like he can just tell you what to do?!”

“Roy…”

Amell started pacing, simmering down. “You shouldn’t let him do that,” he grumbled. “What you want is important too.”

Alistair laughed. “I can’t just…”

“Yes you can,” Amell said.

Alistair looked at him, and sighed. “You do whatever you want, huh?”

“That’s right,” Amell said. He punched the air. “That’s fucking right! And so do you.”

Alistair laughed. “You seem back to your old self.”

“I… you know what? Let’s get drunk.”

Alistair felt fire when Amell slung an arm over his shoulder that night and laughed loud enough to make Alistair deaf in one ear. He supported Amell on the way back to their rooms in Eamon’s castle, and Amell’s laughing turned into a soft, high pitched giggle that tickled at Alistair’s ear.

Alistair thought, for a moment, of other times he’d seen Amell stagger back to a room in some inn or tavern, arm slung around someone—what that always led to. Thinking of those times, Amell’s touch seemed to burn again.

But Amell shoved off Alistair, and went to his room alone.

* * *

After Zevran laughed at him for being “woo-less,” he was surprisingly easy to talk to about the whole thing. Alistair had wondered if he might have lingering feelings, but that seemed to not be the case. On the contrary, he seemed encouraging.

“You can tell him how you feel,” Zevran suggested.

Alistair groaned, letting his head sink into the table. “But I’m not even sure.”

“I don’t quite see what the problem is,” Zevran chirped. “He’s not one to be insulted by someone’s advances. He’d told me he’d tried to get you into his tent before, yes?”

“Yes,” Alistair agreed. “But he’s not doing that now… I don’t know what he’s doing now, but he doesn’t seem interested in… anyone. Now.”

“Alas,” Zevran said. “I say you go upstairs and ask him to ravish you anyway. Having sex might be the best way to find out.”

“But that’s not what I want… I mean, that’s not… all of it”

“What  _ do _ you want, then?”

Alistair thought about that, thought about Amell asking that, being furious about it.

_ What do I want? _

He saw Amell immediately looking at him when Riordan told them the Grey Warden secret—that one of them must die. Alistair saw the fear flash across his face, and felt something wrench inside him.

_ What do  _ I  _ want? _

“Hey,” Alistair said. “You know if… if Riordan fails, then I’ll…”

“Don’t talk about it,” Amell said, sounding haunted. “Please just… I don’t want to think about it.”

Later, Alistair held the rose in his hand, walked back up to Amell’s room. He wanted to knock, braced himself…

He didn’t go in.

The rose stayed in a book in Eamon’s castle when they rode out to battle.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, updating the last chapter of this totally slipped my mind! So here it is now.

Right before they got to Denerim, Alistair found Amell with his face buried in his hands, shivering.

“Hey,” Alistair said. “What’s wrong?”

Amell’s fingers dug into his hair. Alistair sat next to him.

“You always scare me when you go quiet,” Alistair said. His hand made its way to Amell’s shoulder, and he stopped himself from stroking his hair. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“No I…” Amell swallowed. “Do you think Morrigan is… trustworthy?”

Alistair laughed. “Absolutely not! What, this is just something you’re thinking about now?”

Amell swallowed.

“What happened? Did she do something?”

“I think… I think she might have been lying to me about… something important. Actually, I know she has been lying but…”

“What is it?”

Amell looked up. “I think… I think I made a mistake. I’m an idiot.”

Alistair said. “Well, you and me both,” he joked, trying to ease the tension. It didn’t take. Amell just looked at him, scared.

“I’m sorry.”

* * *

The battle at Denerim is the only time Alistair ever saw Amell really dress for battle. No more frippery, no more going out into battle wearing velvet and gold and relying on barrier spells to defend him. He wore armor, unembellished, and could have been mistaken for any soldier. The helmet made his face look grim and harsh, brought out all the lines in his face and the dark circles under his eyes that he’d accrued over their travels.

After defending the gates at Ostagar, Amell was already sweating and panting, eyes darting around anxiously. When they said goodbye to the others, Alistair saw him gulp painfully, choked his goodbyes out like they were needles in his throat. Alistair knew what he must be thinking.

“We’ll get through this,” Alistair told him. “Both of us.”

In less than an hour they were covered in dirt, sweat, and blood. It was pungent in Alistair’s nostrils, enough to make him want to vomit. His head was already spinning, already--without having made it to the archdemon yet. Every now and then, he could hear cracks of lightning behind him, or the chill of an icy wind--Amell, striking down and freezing any opponents that came for Alistair’s back. Even at a distance, Alistair could see the strain on Amell’s face in these moments, the wild terror in his eyes.

Then, as they were running, the archdemon tore through the sky above them. Riordan’s body fell and laid still before them, its eyes wide open. Amell ran toward the body for a moment, gasping, looking at the face, before he turned back and stared at Alistair, horrified.

Riordan had failed.

One of them would die.

Alistair wanted to talk to him, to say  _ something _ \--but before he could there were more darkspawn coming at them, making such talk impossible. He could hear Amell’s panicked, shallow breaths as he fought, and wanted to get closer, but the battle was too thick. It left little room for any movement that wasn’t aimed to behead the next darkspawn in front of him, or any conversation that wasn’t panicked shouting.

They didn’t have time to catch their breath until they climbing Fort Drakon.

“Well,” Alistair joked. “Really missed being here.”

Amell didn’t respond. His breaths were still loud, quick, and shallow, and he didn’t look Alistair in the eye.

“At least we’ll get a better view this time,” Alistair continued. “And… oh boy, it really does bug me when you go quiet like that.”

Amell gasped. “I…”

There was In front of the door to the roof, Amell stopped for a moment, supporting himself against the wall and turning back to look at Alistair.

“This could…” Amell swallowed. “This could be the last time we…”

“Could be?” Alistair asked. “This is it.”

“This is what?” Leliana asked. “All of us may well survive. Do not lose faith.”

The encouraging words of the rest of the party was lost on him. Alistair found it drowned out as he listened to the shriek of the archdemon outside the door, and looked at Amell, remembering loud laughter and the feeling of someone sobbing against him. Alistair’s stomach twisted, and he knew what he had to do.

“Well…” Alistair said. “I just want to say I’m… glad I met you.”

He thought of the rose, the one he’d never given.

“Thanks,” Amell said. His breath caught a moment, and a painful emotion flashed across his face. Then he turned ahead, and gripped his sword.

Outside, the Archdemon waited for them.

The battle was long, but they were practiced in taking down a dragon now, after the dragon in Haven and the battle with Flemeth. They already had a strategy. Still, they had to adjust every moment. They watched soldiers fall around them, and had to take fierce blows, sometimes only hanging on through the power of Wynne’s healing magic. 

And then, the Archdemon fell.

Amell had already been slammed around when the Archdemon wasready to be slain. He was unsteady, gasping for air, bleeding from the side. And yet, without even a single look at Alistair, he started to stumble forward.

“Wait!” Alistair had to run to catch up to him. “Wait! Let me take the final blow!”

He gripped Amell’s arm.

“No,” Amell said.

“It’s my duty,” Alistair said. “I’m the one who…”

“I’ll do it,” Amell ordered, voice cracking. “Stay here—”

“You say that like I’m giving you a choice.”

Alistair pushed him off, and Amell screamed.

“Alistair—wait!”

And Alistair ran. But before he could reach a sword to grab a hold of, Amell’s gauntleted hand was clawing at his arm, grasping him and coming between him and the archdemon. He only saw Amell’s face for a brief second, saw the lines on his face and a flash of tears in his eyes, and then their lips were crushed together.

Alistair froze, something like lightning running through his skin. Amell pulled his lips away, quickly.

“I do whatever I want,” Amell sounded weary, but he smiled. His eyes were soft. “Remember?”

And then he ran.

Alistair suddenly realized that he really was frozen.

_ Paralysis magic. _

He saw Amell take the sword, and run forward, and he wanted to scream. But he couldn’t. The feeling of magic pulsed through his veins, numbing even his lips. All he could do was watch.

Amell brought down his sword.

The magic faded as the light shot up into the sky, and Alistair fell over to his knees, screaming. Crying. Getting up shakily, and marching forward to the charred remains before him.

“Alistair,” Wynne’s voice was gentle. “Alistair—there might not even be a body left.”

Alistair turned to her, wide-eyed. He swallowed.

“You might not want to see what remains there are, child.”

“There,” he shook his head, “There has to be  _ something _ …”

He ran, stumbled forward. It was hard to see in the blackness and smoke left by the explosion, but he made out a figure on the ground, drenched with blood. Alistair dropped to his knees. His hands shuddered as he pulled the body up, cradling it.

Amell lay limp as a ragdoll, blood splattered over his face.

“Please,” Alistair choked out. It was as though all his other words had been blown right out of his chest. “Please, no…”

He shuddered, fighting back tears. The others were around him, telling him they’d best leave, that they couldn’t take the body with them, but he barely heard. 

“I’m not going to leave him,” he cried. “I-I can’t…”

Eventually, he heard a relenting sigh from Wynne. He felt Leliana’s gauntleted hand on his shoulder, reassuring.

“We need to rejoin the battle,” she said. “But take your time.”

He heard them leaving, but his eyes stayed on Amell’s still body. His vision blurred, and suddenly there were hiccuping sobs fighting their way through his throat. His hand shook as he moved it, trying to wipe off the blood with his gauntleted hand.

He never even gave him the rose. That thought alone made the tears flow freely. 

“Open your eyes,” he said. “Please… somehow…”

And then, against all reason, Alistair felt something. A hand--a weak grip on Alistair’s wrist. Alistair screamed. 

“He’s--! Oh Maker,  _ Wynne!  _ Get over here!”

Amell’s eyes fluttered open.

* * *

Amell walked a bit unsteadily, still pale at Anora’s coronation. Wynne had done her best, but she had informed them both that blood loss was not something that could be easily rectified with magic. He had to rest, eat properly, take supplements--Amell had scowled at her through the whole lecture. Still, he’d grudgingly done as she ordered, and now was up on his feet again.

“I think I want to eat a horse,” Amell said. “Just an entire horse.”

It was in the middle of the ceremony, right when the Chanter was saying a sermon and the entire congregation was supposed to be silent. Amell, of course, didn’t keep his volume down in the slightest, and earned them some angry glares from the people around them. He blinked obliviously at them, and kept looking ahead.

Alistair found himself starting to laugh. And then, he found himself starting to stare.

He hadn’t  _ really  _ talked properly with Amell. Not since the battle. Not even when Amell had woken up after healing, his hand in Alistair’s, suddenly grasping after hours of stillness. There had been too much for him to do in the aftermath, and too much rest Amell needed. Now--

Amell dug into the feast after the coronation, laughed in a way that seemed to almost recapture the laugh of their early days together. Alistair felt strangely invisible, watching him. Like he often had in Amell’s presence. For a moment, he wanted to just shrink away again, leave Amell to his fun.

He didn’t.

He stayed instead, smiling weakly--but genuinely. Hoping. And then, Amell turned and their eyes met. The laughter died. The expression that flashed across Amell’s face then was… nervous. Uncertain.

“Hey,” Alistair said. He found himself gripping the book in his hand. “Roy.”

“Hey?” Amell said back. Still uncertain. He seemed to be waiting on what Alistair had to say, worried about it even. So Alistair took a deep breath.

“So, uh, you know,” he started, feeling his throat clog up. “The balcony’s rather nice. Or I hear it is.”

Amell didn’t seem to understand.

“Do you want to… go see it?”

“Oh!” Amell suddenly seemed to understand. “Yes, the balcony. The balcony’s good. Perfect.”

They managed to slip away alone, away from their companions and the crowd of nobles who suddenly wanted to get to know them. Outside, on the balcony, Alistair cleared his throat.

“You know, back there on the battlefield… I really thought you were dead.”

Amell smiled. “I thought I was, too.” He sighed. “I guess I should have given Morrigan more credit for trustworthiness…”

“Morrigan?” Alistair asked.

Amell’s face scrunched up, like he’d remembered something a bit unpleasant. “Maybe I’ll tell you later.”

Alistair decided not to ask. “You know I… you really should have let me be the one to… risk it.”

Amell didn’t say anything, but frowned. Alistair chuckled nervously, as though in anticipation for a bad joke that he did not make.

“When it happened all I could think was… I didn’t know how I could--that is if I--Maker, I’m such a fool. This isn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

Amell’s eyes flickered nervously.  “What did you want to talk about?”

“I--well…” Alistair fumbled. “Actually, here. Just take this.”

He took out the book, handed Amell a page, the one with the rose pressed to it. Amell’s hands traced over its dried petals, it’s leaves and stem. He was quiet, fumbling a bit like a clumsy giant who’d just been handed finely blown glass. Finally, he looked up at Alistair, confused.

“What is it?” he asked.

“What,” Alistair joked. “They don’t teach you what roses are in the Circle?”

Amell scowled.

“Right, sorry, bad joke.” Alistair ran on. “Well, there was something I had… planned to say. About this. About you. Something about--how I saw it and it felt like the one beautiful thing, in the midst of so much… ugliness. Something about how you… well… something.”

“Something,” Amell echoed back, amused.

“I guess it’s kind of silly, isn’t it?” Alistair laughed nervously. “So yeah. Something, something roses… argh, I really am an idiot. I can’t say any of this right. You can laugh, no worries. I’m in love with you, you know.”

“You’re not a--wait,  _ what?” _

Alistair felt all the blood rush to his face. He looked at the floor, studied Amell’s boots.

“No, wait,” Amell’s volume was suddenly rising excitedly. “I think you need to say that again.”

Alistair groaned. “Right. You’re making fun of me. I’ll just shut up and pretend this never happened.”

“No, no!” he could hear laughter in Amell’s voice as he turned away. “This is great, this is  _ brilliant,  _ this is--where do you think you’re going?!”

“Maybe over the balcony,” Alistair moaned. “Maybe--”

Before he could say anything else, Amell had jumped him, throwing all his weight onto him so Alistair had to spin and take a few steps back. Alistair’s arms wrapped quickly around Amell’s waist.Their bodies pressed close together. Their lips met. Kissing--Amell was  _ kissing  _ him. Alistair’s heart raced, blood rushing to his ears.

When Amell pulled away, his eyes shone. Alistair could feel him trembling with excitement. He shouted at the top of his lungs.

“I love you you, too! Maker, this is the best day of my  _ life!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> The entire fic is written and edited, so this will be updated in 1-2 days. Thanks to anyone who reads this!
> 
> I'm on tumblr [here](http://allegedgreywarden.tumblr.com/) in case anyone wants to shoot a message there and be friends.


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